


The Pleasure Principle

by Ololon



Category: The Culture - Iain M. Banks
Genre: Crisis of conscience, F/F, Humour, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: Set post-Use of Weapons: Diziet Sma takes a much-needed holiday, whilst coming to terms with the book's revelations and doing the Orbital's Mind a favour helping out a young Contact recruit.In response to this prompt:"What happens in the Culture when SC isn't getting involved in something messy? What do people like Diziet do when off-duty? Feel free to write porn if you think that's what the answer is! I'm happy if you don't include Diziet, but they seem the best of the nominated characters to tell stories about."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [republic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/republic/gifts).



> First off, before you dive into this story, please note that it has SPOILERS for Use of Weapons: not the big one, but a more general spoiler for the book. But you should have read the book anyway, and if you haven't, go and do so immediately!  
> Secondly: I found this a difficult request to fulfill. Writing what SC agents do when off-duty is surprisingly hard to do well and rather easy to turn into a very boring "what I did on my holidays" extended postcard, the more so since there are few recurring characters in the Culture, so it was hard to work in dramatic elements based on existing relationships. So, I apologise: I cheated. In order to inject a bit of conflict into the story, I placed it directly after the events (in the Sma timeline) of Use of Weapons, so that, realistically, she would still be dealing psychologically with that. I also introduced an original character undergoing a similar crisis of conscience. And you didn't get much in the way of porn either. It's rated mature because of some of the themes and descriptions. I hope it's not too radically off what you were looking for.
> 
> Rated mature for some of the themes and memories described here; and the odd bit of swearing.

** The Pleasure Principle **

 

 

> _“The Culture, there could be no doubt, relied profoundly on its machines…Besides, it left the humans in the Culture free to take care of the things that really mattered in life, such as sports, games, romance, studying dead languages, barbarian societies and impossible problems, and climbing high mountains without the aid of a safety harness.”_  - Consider Phlebas, Iain M Banks.

 

Sma was on her yacht when the call came in. Specifically, she was lounging on a deckchair on her yacht, which was skipping nicely over the sun-capped waves, her book long since placed aside on the deck and her eyes just beginning to drift shut in perfect contentment

 _\- Ms Sma, Hub here, excuse the intrusion,_ the Orbital's Mind communicated directly to her neural lace.

 _\- What is it?_ She asked, not entirely politely.

_\- I could use your help with something._

_\- I'm supposed to be on holiday,_ she pointed out.

 _\- I know, but I need an SC or Contact agent for this._ Sma allowed her heartfelt sigh to be communicated across the lace.

_\- Specifically?_

_\- I need you to talk someone down from a mountain._

_\- Pardon?_

_\- She's a relatively new agent, just finished her second assignment and came here for some R &R. She appears to be having something of a crisis of conscience._

‘Oh,’ Sma said out loud, ‘One of _those._ ’ And she'd been having such a splendid holiday, too.

* * *

After the Zakalwe debacle (the _final_ Zakalwe debacle, a part of her couldn't help but note, sourly), the Minds in their steering group had strongly suggested that she and Skaffen-Amtiskaw take a vacation. A long one. She had still been somewhat reeling from the fallout of that mess, caught up in a constant re-assessment of the man, of his every action over the years, a core of horrified nausea seemingly settled permanently in the pit of her stomach. Going back to the power station above the dam hadn't seemed like distance enough. So she had agreed without demur. Surprisingly, the drone had accepted as well, but they had parted ways sometime before she got to Coduresa Orbital.

‘Where's that sarcastic drone that was with you last time?’ her mother had asked her the morning after her arrival, over breakfast. Sma was at the table on the balcony overlooking the bay, tapping a pen against her lips thoughtfully; the distant arc of the Orbital was just visible on the horizon, a shimmery haze against the blue, curving sharply up into the sky. Her mother was standing, barefoot but wearing a bright stripy poncho against the early morning chill; a half-eaten pastry in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. She didn't seem to be paying much attention to what she was painting on the canvas, but then, her mother always had a slightly distracted air.

‘On holiday too, I suppose,’ Sma had replied, only realising now that she hadn't asked Skaffen-Amtiskaw about its plans.

‘Probably needs a break from you,’ her mother had said, with a smile, eyes twinkling.

‘Very funny.’ The paintbrush was put down.

‘Well I'm rather glad it's not here. I could _not_ have a conversation with that machine.’ It was Sma's turn to stifle a smile; what her mother actually meant by that was that she had tried to get into a long conversation about the strange codified ritual behaviour found amongst the upper classes of some highly stratified stage 2 society that was her latest historical project, which the drone had doubtless had no interest in, nor the patience to pretend to one.

It was hard to imagine Skaffen-Amtiskaw on holiday; what did it do? Catch up with drone friends? Or lovers, in thrall? Practice target-shooting? Or indulge in some other, odder pursuit she probably didn't want to know about? When they were together, it was never off-duty. She recalled, vaguely, something about it going on an exploration of some jungle on a primitive world somewhere, many years ago. She thought she remembered it mentioning an old drone friend from Contact once or twice. In nearly thirty years of working together, however, she realised that in some ways she knew very little about it, and felt a vague and irritating sense of shame at that. She sighed and abandoned her pen; a half-finished poem was scrawled on the paper beside her; her own occasional creative endeavour. She was not doing very well at it lately. Fucking Zakalwe, anyway. (And always, that little whisper: _how had she not suspected…something?_ )

‘You've been awfully quiet since you've got back, Dizzy,’ her mother said, suddenly serious. ‘And I've only bumped into three strangers in the house the past couple of weeks. Something on your mind?’ She looked, briefly, at her mother, and was almost tempted to tell her. Caretor da’Marenhide was a historian; she knew the barbarism human beings were capable of – academically, anyway - but that was the crucial difference. She wouldn't understand. She couldn't. And if she knew she'd make such a fuss about Sma going back to that life, which she had never quite approved of.

‘Just tired,’ Sma replied, and made an effort to change the topic. ‘What are you up to this afternoon?’

'Oh, Professor Yaltricaj is coming over to work on our new paper. You're welcome to stay, though I'm not sure you'd be interested...’ Sma smiled, very sweetly; Professor Yaltricaj was possibly the most boring machine on the entire Orbital. Once it and her mother got into a room together – hell, she'd almost rather be stuck with Zakalwe.

'Actually, I have an invite to go ice rafting in the ring with some old Contact friends,’ she said. A raised eyebrow.

‘Doesn’t seem like your usual thing, but, well, I hope you have fun.’

 * * * 

 _What,_ thought Sma, a few hours later, as the raft launched itself over yet another crevasse… _in the name of reason…_ and landed with a bone-shattering crunch on the other side… _possessed me to think…_

‘Here we go!’ shouted Kulya, ‘We should just make it to the next rock! Brace yourselves!’… _that this would be…_ the raft lifted and sailed in an arc across empty space… _a good_ …and landed with an even greater crunch on the next moonlet, then slid forward…

‘Fuck!’  _idea…._ and began to spin uncontrollably. She heard someone retching a couple of seats behind her.

‘Hard left!’ screamed someone else. Sma wondered, vaguely, if she was going to die in this exercise in monumental stupidity, and was quite irritated at the notion. Clearly the thought of being trapped in an interminable debate with Yaltricaj had addled her brains. There was much shouting and wrestling of the controls until the raft, which was really more like a hoversled, finally stopped spinning and slid to an almost genteel halt. There was a chorus of relieved laughter.

‘Phew!’ exclaimed Kulya, ‘I thought we would overshoot that last one for sure!’ Sma and some of the others got out of the raft and staggered about awkwardly in their spacesuits. Walking in low g on ice was as hard as it sounded, and before long everybody looked like they were performing some impromptu slapstick comedy, which did make her laugh, a bit. Coduresa Orbital was situated just outside the Rasd binary star system, which possessed a splendid collection of gas giants (indeed, its inhabitants had primarily situated it for the views). One of them had an extensive ring system, composed of icy rocks of varying sizes from specks to a few tens of metres across. It was a popular sport amongst the more adventurous inhabitants of Coduresa to “raft” across the ice, leaping across the gaps and (theoretically, at least) landing on the next one. It invariably involved a high risk of crashing and/or hurtling off uncontrollably into space, but there was always a small ship on permanent rescue duty, and their spacesuits were sophisticated enough to both withstand a fair degree of punishment and deal with any resulting injury. Sma decided to stand still for a bit, and admired the view; the gas giant filled almost the whole sky, a swirl of aquamarine and deep blue, marbled with vivid stormy white swirls – until a human figure cartwheeled across in zero g. There was a chorus of helpful suggestions over the com about the use of their thrusters. Sma rolled her eyes.

‘Having fun?’ Kulya asked.

‘It’s…interesting,’ Sma replied, diplomatically.

‘P’iekroth and I and whoever else wants to come are going solar surfing. He based the ship on this old design from like a thousand years ago and made it himself, it’s amazing, and he’s nearly finished it.’ Kulya added, oblivious, ‘We’ll go probably in a month or two. Now _that’s_ going to be so exciting! Want to join us?’

‘Maybe next time.’

 * * * 

She had had her own crisis of conscience about it – apparently everybody did, at least once (assuming they had any conscience to speak of). She could still picture it vividly; not her first assignment, nor even her second, for Contact, but after she had been called up for – and accepted – a position in SC, during her extended, enhanced training. The sullen castle sitting on the hillside, bleak grey in the mizzle and damp fog, not quite rising above the stench of the town sprawled in the valley below. It was the smell that had hit her first. She had almost gagged as they passed through the streets; at the damp, rotted straw trampled into roads of mud with raw sewage running down the sides. Filthy people you could smell before you even saw them coming out of the fog; broken people, crippled and begging as they sat in the shit in the street, with pleading eyes and gap-toothed, black-toothed smiles of desperation. The castle had had a row of severed heads in various states of decay on the top of the main gate – one being industriously pecked for fleshy scraps by a bald-headed bird. But it was none of those things that had finally got to her. It was what she had seen when she looked down from the battlements, moving in the moat below, that at first she had thought had been animals.

‘How can we live like this?’ she had demanded, gesturing at a generous meal aboard the pristine clean ship in her immaculate clean clothes, warm, sweetly scented air around her. ‘It's immoral. To live like this when so many – live like _that._ ’

‘How can we not?’ the ship had replied, bringing up her short. ‘Not to live life to the fullest, not to partake of every possibility and pleasure we can, how can we not? Would it not be a waste otherwise? Throwing away what you have would not give to those others what they do not have, nor is your comfort bought at anybody else’s expense.’ She had argued about that, about the rich baron in the castle who ate meat every day and drank fine wine whilst the poor in the town died of hunger or cold or wretched disease. The ship had argued in turn that in hierarchical societies those at the top could improve the lives of those at the bottom, that _they_ had a moral imperative to do so – but outsiders like themselves, from a society far removed and impossibly far advanced by comparison – could only effectively do so by intervening so comprehensively that it would in effect destroy that society and forcibly replace it with the Culture itself, and that, the ship said with its usual understatement, was another moral conundrum entirely. Not to mention that even a civilisation as large and vast as the Culture could only do that with a small fraction of the galaxy – and how could they choose? Nevertheless, a lot of Sma's justification for her own enjoyments, not to mention the moral compromises that had to Zakalwe, was the fact that, at work, she did try to change things, to improve, in some small way, the lot of the galaxy at large.

 * * * 

Diziet had decided, long before the ice rafting, that adventure sports were not really her thing, not even in the many virtual realities on offer; she preferred mystery adventures for those. Mostly, though, she swam in the ocean, and in pools; she explored the many little islands of the great sea by her family home, and the cities of the Orbital, hopping between the different Plates, with their wildly different habitats and sights. She caught up with old friends and made new; the same with lovers too. There was plenty of time. She watched with interest the big news of the month, the signing of a peace treaty between the warring twin systems of Tharris and Yarilon; talk buzzed for days about how the Minds had managed a successful mediation in a conflict that had been grinding on for over fifty years. She had her own theories, and argued them with her mother. Her brother heard she was back on the Orbital; he and his twin daughters spent a month at the house she intermittently occupied, and, for a time, what had felt like boundless vistas of free time were entirely consumed with entertaining and being entertained by eight year olds with the typical limitless curiosity of youth, and the indulged, fearless confidence of Culture children. She filled her mind with art and music and laughter, played freeball, and, intermittently, she wrote her poetry, always coming back to defining and confining the man she had known as Zakalwe within the strict limits of word and page. She missed her father by days for the second time in a row whilst on leave; he had just left, on one of his many adventures, and the house, when she walked down to the shore, was empty. So she had borrowed the yacht.

A few hours after Hub had called her, she had guided the boat into a rocky bay, with great tumbles of boulders and scree down to the waterline and mountains towering all around; other, more dangerous submerged rocks could be seen through the clear green sea. She was obliged to anchor a hundred yards or so offshore, and, not fancying the swim, got Hub to displace a remote drone to give her a lift to dry land. It was not a populated beach by any stretch of the imagination; this cluster of rocky outlets were semi-wild and largely uninhabited. People went here for wilderness hiking, or wildlife spotting, or, she thought wryly, to get away from things.

‘Is she still up that mountain?’ Sma asked the remote drone, squinting dubiously up at the towering mass of striated rock that rose sheer ahead of her; on its eastern side, it plunged straight into the water, but here there was a – marginally – less steep ascent.

‘Indeed,’ replied the Hub Mind, via the drone, ‘She is a proficient rock climber, but has now been up there in only a basic emergency tent for three days in protest at our, I quote, ‘Self-indulgent, profligate lifestyles.’’

‘Oh for grief’s sake,’ muttered Sma, ‘Well, you can give me a profligate lift to the top, too.’

‘Certainly. I hope you’re not scared of heights.’

‘Not even slightly.’

The drone left her about twenty feet below the summit, in the interests of not overtly startling its’ single inhabitant, but it was actually a fairly easy walk up that last distance. The top consisted of a rather anticlimactic small flat shelf of bare rock, on which a silver solo pop-up tent was perched somewhat precariously. Behind it was a jagged heap of dark stone, stained deep red by the waning artificial daylight. In front of the tent a young woman sat cross-legged, with her eyes shut, apparently in deep meditation; she had cascades of black, curly hair, and her skin was the same dark brown as the stone, but a much warmer tone. It was already quite cold, and a strong wind ruffled Sma’s hair.

‘Ms Eruth’da?’ Sma ventured, politely. The woman’s eyes snapped open; pale blue beneath a deepening frown. ‘Diziet Sma,’ she added, with her most winning smile.

‘I suppose Hub sent you,’ the woman said, disdainfully, although not enough to disguise the curious once-over she was giving Sma.

‘It asked if I might drop by, since I was sailing in the area,’ Sma replied, casually. She made a show of looking out over the bay, ‘You can see my yacht out there actually,’ She turned back to the woman. ‘It’s a good view, but not good enough to stay for three days, if you ask me.’

‘Nobody did,’ Eruth’da retorted, petulantly. Sma raised a quelling eyebrow. ‘It’s Pristahl,’ the woman added, grudgingly, ‘And you might as well go back, because I’m not moving.’

‘Oh yes, I heard about that,’ Sma said, dismissively, ‘You had your little crisis of conscience. Well, we all have one of those. And then we get over it.’ Pristahl gave her a hard look.

‘ _Are_ you really Contact as well, then?’ Sma smiled again.

‘Not quite, not anymore.’ Pristahl tried to hide it but her eyes widened as she clearly guessed Special Circumstances.

‘So what was it?’ Sma asked, ‘That got to you, I mean. Gruesome execution, starving peasants, horrible battle?’ Pristahl unfolded herself, indignant.

‘You shouldn’t be so flippant about it! Especially not if you’re supposed to be talking me out of this protest.’

‘Yes, what _is_ this protest exactly? I mean, it’s not like anybody’s particularly going to notice if you sit up here in the middle of nowhere by yourself.’

‘Hub noticed. And I’m sure I’ll make the news shortly.’

‘It’s a _Mind,_ it notices everything. And no, you won’t. It’s boring. Besides, they're still talking about that peace treaty.’

‘Well I ran out of rations yesterday,’ Pristahl added, defensively. Sma sighed. She was too cynical sometimes, she knew that. Nevertheless, Pristahl was so very young.

‘So what, you suffer a little bit, secure in the knowledge that you can stop it anytime, and that somehow reduces the non-voluntary suffering of someone else somewhere in the universe does it?’

‘There’s no need to speak to me as if I’m stupid. I’m making a political point,’ Pristahl said, stiffly affronted.

‘No you’re not; you’re not even making a fool of yourself. You’re being self-indulgent.’ Pristahl looked like she was biting back something quite rude at that point. Her jaw worked for a moment. Sma began stalking around the shelf, nosing about, noting that there was, indeed, very little in the way of creature comforts up here.

‘Did you climb all the way up?’ she asked, peering over the edge; on the far side, it dropped very nearly vertically into the sea.

‘Of course. It would hardly be in the spirit of the protest if I’d just got a flyer or something.’ Sma shot her a glance, and looked pointedly at an object slung over a nearby rock.

‘Hub told me you _enjoyed_  climbing, and I note you took an AG harness.’

‘That’s only sensible,’ Pristahl said, ignoring the rest of the jibe. Sma sighed.

‘Well at least you’re not one of those people that does stupidly dangerous adventure sports with no safety measures, I suppose.’ She tapped her chin with one finger in faux contemplation. ‘But perhaps that would count as being disrespectful of the sanctity of one’s privileged life, wouldn’t it?’ Yes, definitely too cynical.

‘You’re not doing a very good job of talking me out of this, you know,’ Pristahl said, impressively not rising to that. Sma smiled again, with genuine warmth.

‘To be honest, I just told Hub I’d have a chat with you out of politeness. Now that I’ve discharged what little sense of obligation I have, I’m going to leave.’ Pristahl stared, disbelieving.

‘You’re just going to go?’

‘Yes, I’m just going to go.’ Sma glanced back down the other side of the mountain. ‘The easy way, preferably. Can I borrow your terminal?’

‘Er, sure.’ Pristahl fumbled in her trousers for a moment, looking nonplussed, then handed Sma the small, penlike device. ‘Did you leave yours on your boat?'

‘Hmm? No, I have a neural lace. Don't need one.’ Sma promptly snapped the terminal in two and tossed the fragments over the edge.

‘Hey!’ Ignoring her, Sma next strode over to the pop-up tent, picked the whole thing up in one go and sent that over the edge too; it lifted on the breeze and whisked out over the ocean as it tumbled.

‘What the hell are you doing?!’ Pristahl was on her feet now, outraged and alarmed but – interestingly – not doing anything to stop her. Sma turned and faced her and picked up the AG harness.

‘Don't you _dare_ throw that off too!’ Pristahl declared hotly. Sma smiled sweetly.

‘I had no intention of doing so.’ And she slung it over her shoulders and snapped the clasp shut.

‘Wait – what is this? Did SC put you up to this as some sort of test? I'm supposed to be on holiday!’

‘So am I,’ Sma said calmly, ‘And I was having a perfectly splendid time until I got sent up here to talk down a spoiled brat from her silly protest on the mountain. I'm done being sympathetic –

‘ – You were anything but sympathetic!’ –  Sma pursed her lips.

‘Fair enough. Regardless, I'm going back to my yacht.’ She switched on the AG harness and stepped out over the edge, hovering in mid-air.

‘You can't just leave me here!’ Pristahl protested, sounding genuinely alarmed, ‘It gets really cold at night! What if I fall on the way down? I'll break my leg and have bones poking out and – and I won’t be able to walk and have no way to get help and die of exposure or something and it will all be your fault!’ Sma shrugged.

‘Well you won't feel guilty about not suffering then will you?’ And so saying, she cut the AG, and dropped like a stone to the bay below, Pristahl's angry shout receding behind her:

‘And throwing that tent away was _littering!’_ But she wasn’t listening. She relaxed her body and let herself fall, faster and faster, the mountain a blur on one side, the sea a green-blue mass rushing up towards her. Her body thrilled, of a sudden, as the air whistled past her ears, and, for a moment, she briefly understood the appeal of such things. She turned the AG back on – gradually – so that by the time she approached the water, she glided towards the yacht, executed a graceful dive a few feet away, and swam the last distance.

Sma remained moored in the bay overnight; she expected that Pristahl would probably spend a cold night on the mountain then decide she needed rescuing – she was no doubt sensible enough to realise that the Hub Mind would check up on her after a little while, and possibly she might want to have a proper talk then. Sma had anyway got Hub to send its remote drone, rendered invisible, to covertly check the girl didn't get herself into any real trouble.

She was woken unexpectedly in the middle of the night by a thumping and bumping on the hull, and came out on deck to find a dripping wet, almost naked and completely furious Pristahl hugging her arms about herself and cursing.

‘You!’ Pristahl shouted when she saw Diziet, jabbing a finger at her, ‘Get me a warm towel and some dry clothes and a hot drink! I'm _freezing to death_ out here!’

‘And why should I do that?’ Sma asked, raising an eyebrow and trying not to laugh at the girl's chattering teeth. Nevertheless, part of her was impressed; Pristahl must have managed to free-climb down before it got too dark, and had swum out into the dangerous bay on top of that.

‘Because you're the arsehole who got me in this situation in the first place! Also: common decency.’ A ferocious glare from under dripping black curls. She really looked quite fetching when she was angry.

‘By all means,’ Sma said, nicely.

 * * * 

‘Do you always sail on holiday?’ Pristahl asked, much later, after she had had a hot shower, and a large dinner; she was now wrapped in a supremely fluffy robe and curled on the plush sofa in the mood-lit stern cabin with a hot mulled wine cradled in her hands.

‘Not always,’ Sma replied from the other end of the sofa, with a shrug, ‘My father had the yacht built. I often borrow it if I come back to my home Orbital.’ Pristahl frowned suspiciously.

‘This isn’t one of those boats where you have to spend hours hauling ropes and trimming sails and all that is it? My cousin’s got one and it’s such hard work, plus I completely chafed my hands.’ Sma smiled into her mug.

‘You’ve changed your tune,’ she said, amused, ‘But to answer your question: yes, you can operate the boat completely manually; I believe my father usually does, but you can let it sail itself if you prefer.’

‘Is that what you usually do?’ Sma shrugged again.

‘Well I occasionally muster myself to steer the tiller, but that’s about it.’ Pristahl laughed, then, rather suddenly, burst into tears. Sma leant over after a few moments and gave her a hug.

‘It was the silliest thing,’ Pristahl said, once the storm had subsided, ‘You’ll probably laugh when you hear it.’ Sma made no reply, just looked at her over the top of her mug. So Pristahl told her, of the stage 3 uncontacted world, and the aristocrats in their palace, and, above all, of the woman in the gown studded with pearls and the towering artificial wig whom they were trying to influence to pressure her husband, seated in what passed for their parliament, to relieve the land tax on the poor.

‘I couldn’t stand her,’ Pristahl admitted, ‘And I thought her such a harsh person anyway, a lost cause. She sat in the drawing room after dinner with the other fine ladies, making the most dreary small talk, when she wasn’t making disparaging remarks about every woman she thought her social inferior. I could see though, that she was bored stiff. But later, after everybody had left, I watched her step out through the garden doors. It had just started to snow, and some of the children were out on the lawn – they weren’t supposed to be – but she just watched them having a snowball fight, shrieking with excitement. I watched as she stooped to touch it where it lay on the ground. But she couldn’t bend to do it; the clothes they wear have these panels of bone from some wretched sea creature sewn into them. The ship told me that they are tied up so tightly that over the years it deforms their figure and compresses their internal organs. The sheer bitter frustration on her face – you’ve never seen anything like it. And I thought: her whole life had been like that, no matter how privileged it was. Squeezed and compressed into a shape that was not her choice, until she could hardly breathe. And there was still a part of her that yearned to make a snowball, and couldn’t even do that.’ She stopped abruptly, and took a deep gulp from her mug. Her eyes glittered still, in the warm, muted light of the cabin. ‘I told you it was silly,’ she muttered, ‘I’m sure you’ve seen a thousand worse things.’

‘Empathy is not silly,’ Sma said, and reached forward to brush a tear from the woman’s cheek, ‘It’s essential.’ Pristahl turned her face into the touch, and Sma stayed her hand, then reached both up, and Pristahl leaned forward and kissed her; after a few moments she drew back, and laughed again, almost an ironic laugh.

‘The ship gave me such a boring lecture. Something about what it called the Principle of Ethical Hedonism.’ Sma burst out laughing in turn.

‘The _what?_ What ship were you on?’

‘At the time? A particularly bullish ROU. It was the GSV _Delusions of Grandeur_ that gave me the speech.'

‘It sounds seriously po-faced, even for a GSV.’

‘You have no idea,’ Pristahl murmured, reaching back towards Sma, who slid her hands under the fluffy robe; the woman’s skin was very warm now, though it shivered slightly under her touch.

‘When _I_ was in Contact,’ Sma told her, pulling the robe down over Pristahl’s shoulders, ‘We all called it the Pleasure Principle.’ A warm, eager smile.

‘I can go with that.’

 * * *

Later still, after they had fallen asleep, Sma woke again, from a memory of the castle. It was always the smell that came back first. That, and the things moving in the midden at the edge of the moat. The children, digging through the mud and filth for rotted scraps of food thrown out by the castle. Sometimes the soldiers on the battlements would toss them tidbits or even the odd bent coin; sometimes they would throw things at them for amusement, or empty shit pots on top of them. Probably orphans, the ship had said; more than usual, due to the pestilence that had swept the country that summer, but there were always some. They would not survive the coming winter, of course, but more would take their place.

She got up, careful not to disturb Pristahl, although – understandably, after all that exercise – she was deeply asleep, and walked out onto the deck, naked. The chill hit her with a shock, but her body could adapt very well, and, in any case, the warmth was only a few steps away. She went and leaned over the rail, and inhaled deeply; sharp, clean air, just before dawn. Salt tang of ocean. A fine mist thrown up by the ship’s passage just tingling on her skin. The hull sliding through the dark waves with a reassuring hiss, stirring up phosphorescent creatures behind it. Did the Minds have their own little crises of conscience? she wondered. She had heard of incidents that seemed to suggest so, but, as ever with the Minds, there was always a level beyond human understanding there. The machines of the Culture were not immune to such things though; it would be dangerous, perhaps, if they were.

After Skaffen-Amtiskaw had performed its impromptu brain surgery on Zakalwe, they had sat, she and Livueta, in chairs at the side of the room, looking at the bed where he lay, still as death, but breathing.

‘I’ve contacted the ship,’ the drone had said, quietly, hovering uncertainly in front of them. ‘It can displace him now, but would prefer to send the module.’ Sma had said nothing. The handle on the door had pulled down halfway, once, twice, uncertainly, and a small barefooted girl had peered around the door, and suddenly there were five of them in the room, pointing at the drone and asking questions in high, piping voices, the bolder ones approaching it as it backed away into a corner, looking as discomfited as she’d ever seen it. Livueta had shooed them out.

‘Why did you save him?’ the woman had asked, staring at the machine, her hand on the door handle.

‘Oh well, you know, once I started…’ the drone had said, flippantly. Livueta had given it a short, hard look.

‘I thought you were just a _weapon_.’

‘No, madam,’ the drone had said, far more seriously, and with a weariness in its tone that she had never heard before, ‘I am the weapon _and_ the choice.’ Livueta lifted her head slightly, then glanced at Sma.

‘Don’t ever come back.’ Then she walked out the room and shut the door behind her.

‘Let’s go,’ Sma had said, in disgust.

She looked up, at the bright silver-blue of the Orbital curving up seemingly from the glowing wake of the yacht, and at the stars beyond that, with all that immense weight of wonder and horror within them. She would go back out there, soon. After a few more moments she went back inside, finished her poem, then slept.

 * * *

The last few weeks of Sma’s holiday passed without any event of great moment, which was just fine by her. A brief message from Skaffen-Amtiskaw arrived as she was packing to leave her mother’s house; she read it and laughed.

# _Sma: Apologies, but I have been delayed a few hours. My VFP was diverted on its way in-system to rescue a bunch of fools in some sort of home-built tin can of a spaceship about to get themselves toasted by a solar flare. Hopefully I will not be too long behind you. Skaffen.#_

So she stayed for a leisurely breakfast then caught a module up to the GCU _Not Dressed Like That You Don’t,_ which would transport them to the ship – yet to be confirmed – that would take them to their onward assignment. She had a new agent to find, which she wasn’t particularly looking forward to, but, well, a new start would probably be a good thing. The ship sent a remote drone to meet her as she disembarked from the module; it’s avatar was apparently waiting in the crew lounge.

‘Ms Sma, welcome aboard.’

‘Hello. Is the drone here yet?’

‘Skaffen-Amtiskaw is actually on an incoming module from the VFP _Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know_  as we speak,’ the ship told her, ‘And should be arriving shortly, if you’d like to wait.’

‘I think I’ll just go to my cabin.’ Sma carried on walking through the large hangar towards the inner doors.

‘What’s all that stuff?’ she asked, pausing by a piled collection of oddly shaped boxes.

‘The drone’s luggage. I will be displacing it to the surface for onward transport to its home Orbital.’

‘Its'  _luggage?_ ’ Sma repeated, incredulous; the pile was substantial. The drone seldom brought even a small suitcase with it when they were on assignment; after all, it wasn’t as if it needed any creature comforts.

‘Indeed,’ commented the ship. Something moved in one of the boxes, which had a glass front. Sma peered down to have a closer look. It appeared to be some sort of terrarium, complete with foliage, a pool, and a vivid yellow and black creature with a knobbly back, bug eyes and an expression of permanent annoyance. She tapped on the glass, lightly. It puffed its face up, and emitted a stridulant noise. She backed away hastily.

‘Is that safe?’

‘Not even slightly. It is an extremely rare species found on one particular mountain range within the cloud forests of Retilyar, in the Nujar system. Its skin contains a highly potent neurotoxin that will kill even you in a matter of minutes, untreated. The native pre-civilisation humanoids harvest it to tip their projectile weapons with.’

‘Are you telling me Skaffen-Amtiskaw went all the way to this remote cloud forest to catch a toxic…whatever it is?’

‘I understand it has an interest in venomous species that are exploited as weaponry; it collects and keeps them as a hobby.’ Sma made no reply to that; she was eyeing the rest of the boxes with deep suspicion. ‘Don’t worry,’ the ship added, mistaking her silence, ‘The lid is perfectly secure.’

‘I’m sure. What is all the rest?’

‘I have no idea. Ah, here it is now.’ Sma turned to see another module gliding in through the hangar bay door, which had remained open since she had arrived; the ship had erected a field across the opening to keep the air in. Now, though, the doors closed behind the module as it swept in a graceful arc to the deck. The drone exited the module, a small dot at this distance, carrying _another_ box, and followed by a young woman. A striking young woman. Sma peered curiously as an extended goodbye appeared to follow; she was about to give up and leave when the woman put her arms around the drone’s fields – glowing rosy red with pleasure but tinged a darker purple with regret – and gave it a hug. She watched, incredulous, as the woman leaned forward and _kissed the drone on its snout_ before getting back into the module, which rose again to leave.

‘Don’t tell me she came all this way just to – ‘ she began, but Skaffen-Amtiskaw clearly saw her, because in the next moment it quickly flew over to where she stood.

‘Hello Diziet,’ it said, brightly, aura field brightening to red again, ‘How kind of you to wait for me.’ Without a trace of sarcasm.

‘Old friend?’ she asked, archly, raising a brow and nodding at the departing module.

‘New one, actually,’ it said, breezily, aura field briefly going muddy cream with embarrassment before settling for a friendly green. It hastily placed its box on top of the other pile, rather haphazardly. ‘Good holiday?’ it enquired. She smiled brightly.

‘Delightful.’ Something in the boxes thumped against the side, and the top one promptly fell off and sprung open; the drone caught it mid-air, of course, and hastily closed it again, but not before she’d caught a glimpse of an eclectic collection of objects that included something rather phallus-shaped that she _hoped_  was an improbably large knife missile.

‘And yourself?’ she enquired, raising the other eyebrow and watching its aura field shade to innocence; the combination of pale rose with a few telltale sparkles looked distinctly unconvincing.

‘The _best._ ’

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Technical notes: A neural lace is mentioned in Excession, as is thrall - drone sex, which is described as purely mental with no physical component involved. AG is of course antigravity. Sma's full name is Rasd- Coduresa Diziet Embless Sma da'Marenhide: the first part acts as an address, referring to the planetary system and specific habitat (planet/Orbital, etc.) of her birth. I chose an Orbital as these are most common (and most cool): they are space habitats forming a ring around 2 million miles in diameter.


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